Each Feather It Fell From Skin

How do I continually find myself

as the soft fleshy object

of fiction? I offer real, tangible, havable

affection, Love, I get


ignored. Preference is given

to thoughts symbolizing me

instead of my diminishing, darling,

deadly door to reality.


Is that all I’m good

for? Being a fantasy

to man? I open

myself up to show


all of my blood on route through

the veins of my body breaking

closer to the surface of skin

daily for decades now

just to be ignored for the imaginary


world I could never really be

a part of. Threadbare, barren,

broken, beaten by my very


existence. I’m not afraid

anymore. I just am


experiencing life as nothing

more than a make-

believe thing. Shrines,

obelisks are erected

in my honor. Giant


paintings made in my likeness.

The charcoal smudges

on a framed paper. Ink smudges

on particles are more real

to men than the same ink

smeared along my left hand.


Know me. Embracing me

is so different than knowing

the disdainful beauty that is me.


1 Comment

  1. Marketing departments have sold the imaginary persona of various groups for years….easy to do given the nature of a lot of people.

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